


A Little Space to Weep

by thecat_13145



Category: Jeeves - P. G. Wodehouse, Jeeves and Wooster
Genre: Homophobia, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Mental Institutions, Original Character Death(s), World War I, attempted suicide, bad attitudes towards women
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-08
Updated: 2012-07-22
Packaged: 2017-11-09 10:25:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 13,340
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/454442
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thecat_13145/pseuds/thecat_13145
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are some things Bertie can't talk about with Jeeves. Or what happened after Sir Roderick came to lunch</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. We Shall Not sleep

**Author's Note:**

> A massive thanks to erynn999, who betaed this and who has being really patient with me.  
> I wish I was talented enough to have created Jeeves and Wooster. But I'm not, they belong to P.G. Wodehouse's estate.
> 
> Take up our quarrel with the foe,  
> To you from failing hands we throw,  
> The torch : Be yours to hold it high!  
> If ye break faith with us who die,  
> We shall not sleep, though poppies grow,  
> In Flanders fields.   
>   
> Lt - Colonel John McCrae  
> 1872 ~ 1918  
> Written in 1915

Picture the scene, if you will, at a club in London.

Quiet and full of stuffy leather armchairs. Not the kind of place where you experience bowling with rolls, and where loud discussion of the cricket earns you a frown from over the top of the newspaper of the oldest member, Mycroft Holmes, who it is rumoured was alive when King Billy was on the throne.

Picture if you will, a large number of the brainiest birds in London sitting around, discussing interesting cases. In the centre of all these brainy birds, Sir Roderick Glossop sits. He is...well, one doesn’t like to say holding court, but that is effectively what it is, entertaining the masses and enjoying their admiration for escaping with life from Lunch with one Bertie Wooster.

“And then, if you please, He had the nerve, the gall to wear the hat he had snatched from my head in my presence.” Sir Roderick took a sip of his lemon squash. “The man was clearly a lunatic.”

The brainy birds make yes noise, suggesting various conditions that the aforementioned Wooster might be suffering from, when a voice rings out from the bar.

“Excuse me, but would you be speaking of Captain Bertram Wilberforce Wooster, late his majesty’s army?”

“I believe Wilberforce is the man’s middle name.” Glossop admitted.

“A clear sign of the instability of the parents.” Another brainy bird added.

“If,” The interuptee (if that is the word I want) continued ignoring second brainy bird, “You are referring to Captain Wooster, I’ll thank you to keep a civil tongue in your head, Sir Roderick. Captain Wooster is a hero of the War, the only survivor of his battalion and if he is a little eccentric, then it is only to be expected.”  
“But keeping 23 Cats--”

The speaker folded his magazine with a sigh. “What of it? Where does it say in the English Psychology dictionary that a man is insane because he keeps cats, of any number? I had a great Aunt who kept 50 of the things and she was as sane as you or I.”

“But in his bed room!”

The speaker shrugged. “He was aware of your dislike of cats, yes? Perhaps he instructed his man to put them in there for the duration of your visit.”

“But the fish?”

The speaker shrugged again. “To try and keep the cats quiet. He wanted to avoid causing you distress.”

“And my hat?”

“Youthful high spirits.” This brainy cove got to his feet, folding up his newspaper. “We expect these young men to behave as adults, but forget that they are little more than boys.”

“Oh you’re not leaving are you Dr. Rivers?” one of the other brainy coves asked. Rivers frowned.

“You’ll forgive me, but I prefer to spend my leisure time in more open company.”

And so Dr. Rivers tootled off and Sir Roderick vanishes from our story.

I, of course, had no idea about this conversation, slipping away from Morpheus’s grasp into bed at 6A , as Jeeves was bustling in with the tea.

“Good morning sir.”

“Morning Jeeves.” Was I imagining things, or did he look a little concerned, as I took the cup. “Something the matter?”

“Well sir,” Jeeves sounded almost reluctant to answer, but with the knowledge that he had to. “A Doctor Rivers called while you were asleep, sir. He asked me to remind you that you are to meet him at four o’clock.”

Only years of practise stopped me spitting tea out all over the covers. “Oh,” I said, putting it down. Nothing is worse for disguising shaking hands than a cup of tea. “He did, did he?”

“Yes sir.” There was a pause. “Sir, would this be Dr. William Rivers, the eminent nerves specialist?”

“I think that’s the chap, yes.” I shrugged, deliberately keeping it casual. “Aunt Dalia wanted me to see him. To prove to Aunt Agatha I’m not mad, wot?”

I laugh, being careful to stop any note of the hysteria I feel entering it. Jeeves is frowning, that way he does when he doesn’t believe me. For one awful moment I think he’s going to call me on it.

“Very good sir.”

*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/

I entered River’s consulting rooms at four o’clock and glared at the man.

“That was a low trick, Rivers.”

River looked up from his paper work and raised an eyebrow.

“Given that you’ve missed your last nine appointments, I think it was a perfectly reasonable course of action.”

“But dash it all.” I said, throwing myself down into the chair next to the bed. “I thought we’d agreed this. I come and see you when I feel I need it, and you leave Bertram alone.”

Rivers put down his pen and turned to stare at me. His eyes are weak, so he has to wear glasses. Dashed convenient for him. You can’t look down at someone with paternal concern without them. Maybe that’s why all those brainy coves wear them.

“I ran into Sir Roderick Glossop at my club today.” He said, placing the lid on his pen. “He told me quite an interesting story,” as I groaned, Rivers continued, raising his voice. “About coming to dinner with you and finding 23 cats in your bedroom.”

“I’m not mad. And there were only 3.” I said, hating the desperate note in my voice.

“As I told you at the time, I agree with you, but it wouldn’t be the first time you had attempted...something of that nature.”

I frowned. “Dam it that was nearly 8 years ago.”

“And the anniversary was last week. Now please, roll up your sleeve.” At my raised eyebrow, he sighed. “Bertie, when I last examined you, your blood pressure was high. I just want to see if that is still the case.”

We both knew he was lying and it made me mad. Dash it all, I’d give my word that I wouldn’t try anything like again.

Frowning, I unbuttoned my shirt sleeve, and before he could say anything rolled up the other one.

The scars, high up on the arm near the wrist, caught the bare bulb of Rivers room, shining slightly. They’re hardly noticeable; indeed most days even I forget they are there. Then one evening they’ll catch the light and a sort of awkward hush settles on the room, as everyone tries to pretend they haven’t seen them.

Rivers didn’t even look at them, keeping the pretence of checking my blood pressure, as he wrapped the cuff around the arm.

“Hmm, higher than I’d like, but could just be stress. You mentioned nightmares the last time we were here. They still a problem?”

My mouth was open to deny it, but he just lifted his head to look at me.

“My god, Bertie you must be exhausted.”

I was cursing with all my heart. Had the paint smudged? Could Jeeves tell?

Sergeant White had been on the stage before joining the army and before his untimely end, he taught me a few tricks of the trade.

“Your mask is still in place, Bertie don’t worry about that.” Rivers said, straightening up. “But you’ve still got the same method of dealing with the nightmares you had at Cranborn. Shoving your fist into your mouth so the screams are muffled.” He lifted my right hand, turning it in the light, frowning. “These are pretty deep. What happened?”

I sigh. “Aunt Agatha summoned me to Cannes.”

“Cannes, France?”

“Yes.”

“Aaah.” I’m relieved he didn’t suggest like some many chaps would have that I could have refused to go. Then again, he’s met the aged relative. “Where the--”

“Yes.” I interrupted him before he can mention what happened there, because I don’t think I’m strong enough to discuss that leave.

Rivers nodded slowly. Thankfully he didn’t press the point. “I’ll clean them up before you leave.” He said his voice gently, which of course made me feel even worse. He held my hand in his, turning it examining the numerous small red marks that dot across it. “So the nightmares remain?”

I suddenly couldn’t summon the energy to deny it. Something about Rivers has always had that effect on me. I nodded.

“No better?”

At my head shake, he frowned. “Worse?”

I groaned, almost falling forward, letting the exhaustion wash over me. It’s so bloody hard maintaining the mask, especially around Jeeves.

“For how long?”

I sighed, knowing we’d come to the what’s it of the matter. “Two years.”

“Two years!” Rivers looked horrified. “For god’s sake, Bertie why didn’t you come and see me sooner?”

I shrugged, not really wanting to answer the question. I’m not going to pretend it was easy and lord only knows I’ve being tempted enough to drag myself here over the last two years, but there was no way of doing so with out Jeeves knowing, and I...I couldn’t put Jeeves through that.

“I thought they’d get better with time.”

“Indeed.” Rivers agreed, still frowning, “But getting worse after nearly 6 years of...relative relaxation is a cause for concern.”

I nearly laughed at his description.

Relative relaxation. If by that you meant I woke up about 3 times a night, drenched in sweat and shivering, as opposed to now, where I’ll get an hour’s sleep maybe before I’m awake searching the shadows of the bedroom for danger that’s dead and gone.

Almost at once I wished I hadn’t thought that phrase.

Rivers was looking at me, his head cocked to one side like a bird.

“What were you thinking Bertie?”

I shrugged and spoke, softly. “They were as bad as they were at...that place, before I...”

“Before you remembered?” Rivers was frowning at me, now like I was some very interesting specimen under his microscope. “What happened two years ago?”

“Nothing! Well, Jeeves came to me, I suppose.”

“Who is Jeeves?”

I gave him a hasty explanation of who Jeeves was and the incident of the cats. His frown was now more concerned, but his voice didn’t hold an n. of it, when he asked, “Do you talk about the war with Jeeves?”

“Good Lord no!”

“Why not?”

My temper, frayed to the limited by his behaviour finally snapped.   
“Because he doesn’t know, and I’d like to keep it that way.” Suddenly, I couldn’t sit still any longer and I was on my feet pacing. “My god, is it too much to ask that there is one person in my life who doesn’t know what happened out there? Who doesn’t look at me like I need looking after or treat me like I’m an idiot?”

“Sounds like he thinks you need looking after of his own accord.” Rivers observed. His tone was disapproving, but at the same time I could see his point of view.

He’d never met Jeeves and all he knew of him was he was the bloke whose arrival coincides with Bertram’s worsening nightmares and seemed to be trying to send Wooster to the lunatic asylum.

“Dash it all, it’s different.” I sighed. “He doesn’t think I need to be m...m...m.”

I struggled, the word going right out of my head, Rivers held up his hand. “You think you might be on the verge of remembering something? Those last two hours?”

Two hours. Those missing two hours between hearing Hornsby breathe his last and coming to in Sur Le Mer, about to be transported back to blighty.

“I...” I hadn’t honestly given the matter much thought. “I suppose anything is possible, what?”

Rivers nodded. “Indeed. Now, we have three main options. First of which is continuing where we left off in 1918, namely talking and psychoanalysis, possibly with some bromides to help you sleep. The second,” he held up his hand to prevent my interruption. “Is hypnosis.”

I winced.

“You don’t like that as an idea?”

“Well to be perfectly frank, no.” I looked at him seriously. “The last time we tried hypnotism if you recall, I came around three days later in a straitjacket.”

“I’m somewhat inclined to agree.” Rivers said, with a slight smile. “You’ve been repressing these memories for quite a while. If we rely on hypnosis, we risk repressing them permanently.”

Would that be so bad? I almost asked, but then changed my mind. Rivers is a brainy bird and I supposed he knew best on this subject.

“There’s a third method that is gaining credence.” Rivers said, taking off his glasses and fussing with them. “Abreaction”

“Sounds like something Aunt Agatha might suggest.” I glanced at Rivers. “I take you don’t approve of this bird?”

“Not entirely. It is, I think, overly risky and in your case virtually impossible.”

“So we’re left with sleeping tablets?” I asked, trying not to sound so bucked up about the idea. Rivers frowned.

“I’m...reluctant to do so, Bertie. With your psychological history--”

“Oh Dash it all.” I snapped. “It was a long time ago and I made a pretty mess of you, as you yourself told me.”

If one is serious about such things, you should cut along the arm, not across as Rivers told me the next morning while he bandaged the Wooster extremities. Along with quite a strong lecture on the hurt I’d caused to his Caroline, though she wasn’t his at the time.

“But you’re not the one who has to face the coroner and admit you were aware of it, Bertie.” He straightened up, signaling that Bertram could dress if he so wished.

“Beyond that, the tablets are a short term measure. Your co operation would be required to recover the memories.” He replaced his glasses and stared at me.

I shivered slightly. I had no desire to visit that place again.

Rivers sighed. “Come and have dinner with me and Caroline. She’s worried about you, and you know she might be helpful in this matter.”

I paused. “I’ll need to ring up Jeeves.”

“Use the telephone here.” He led me through to his office, where the instrument sat


	2. No need to mourn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some graphic stuff at the end of this (but very sad, it made me cry writing it).  
>  _'Strange friend,' I said, 'here is no cause to mourn.'  
>  'None,' said that other, 'save the undone years, _
> 
> Wilfred Owen Strange Meeting

She looked just like her brother.

Of course, I knew they were twins and I’d heard chappies go on about how similar they looked in their youth, but when ever I’d been in the company of both, I’d never noticed it.

Funny how much difference hair makes, as she turned from her position by the window, it could have been Hornsby standing there.

“Dashed sorry.” I said, after I realized I’d been standing staring at her for nearly five m. And Rivers was starting to look a lot like Stilton Cheesewright when he thought I was after Florence. “It’s just...”

“You thought I looked just like my brother.” Caroline hugged me, smiling. “You’re not the first one to make that observation, Grandmother is furious.”

“And how is the aged relative?”

“Still alive and carrying out human sacrifices.” She glanced at me. “Your Aunt Agatha?”

“Still crunching glass bottles and attempting to walk Bertram up the aisle.”

Her face creased in sympathy. “We’ll be rid of them some day, Bertie. Remember that.”

To anyone who doesn’t know either of us, such a conversation might sound a tad harsh. But to understand, you have to have met either of the horrors involved.

My aunt Agatha, as readers of my works will be well aware, chews broken glass bottles and is rumored to conduct human sacrifices by the full moon and Curly’s grandmother, who basically raised Caroline and her brother, falls into the same category. They were actually at school together, a fact I didn’t learn until after I met Curly at Oxford, not that it would made any difference. One of the best was old Curly.

I met him at Oxford, Curly I mean, though Caroline was undoubtedly intelligent enough to be there. One of these bright girls you meet around the town. A nurse in the war with the Red Cross. And continuing in that vein now, which is the only reason Bertram hasn’t yet forked out for a fish slice for her and Rivers.

We were apparently in the same class for lectures, though I didn’t notice him until he introduced himself.

“You know it’s interesting.” The voice behind me is something of a shock and I turn to see a sandy haired chap staring down over my shoulder.

“What is?”

“Your notes.” His hair was ridiculously long, making him look like one of those chaps in the paintings. Cavalier. That’s it. “They’re a nearly perfect record of everything the prof’s said, and the reading.”

“So?” I asked, though my heart was in my mouth.

“So,” the long sandy curls were shaken back to reveal huge midnight blue eyes. “I’ve seen your essays. They’re dribble.”

I sighed. “This stuff,” I had to drop my voice as old Fishface (not terribly original, I know, but if you knew the chappy you’d understand.) glared in our direction. “I can do, but when I try to write it out, with all the opinions and what not that they want, I...” I shook my head. “I just fall down.”

He had leant back, his head on one side looking down at me (not exactly unusual, as Curly was about 6 foot, but as we were in a lecture theater he had an additional advantage over me).

“I could help.” he said, softly. “They’re always saying my essays aren’t bad.”

“Oh thanks.” It took me a moment or two to realize that I didn’t actually recognize him. “Feel we’ve started in the middle, what? I’m Bertie Wooster.”

“I know.” The blue eyes sparkled. 

“You do?” 

The curls moved in a nod.

“Well, then you seem to have me at an advantage what?”

“I like the sound of that.” And just when I was trying to figure out what on earth he meant, he leant backwards smiling. “Constantine Charlot Hornsby”

I was just thinking that I thought Wilberforce to be a bit stiff, when his smile widened. “But Friends call me Curly.”

I could smell the lecture hall, that slightly sweet scent of books, human sweat and that oil they use on wood. Linseed I think it’s called. It took a mo or three for me to realise that both Caroline and Rivers were staring at me, Rivers like I was some form of creature under his microscope and Caroline with concern.

“Oh sorry.” I said, flushing.

Caroline smiled then, the same half tinted smile like her brother used to do. Like that painting by the Italian chap, only better because it’s real and you can see the wheels turning in their head. “Don’t apologise, Bertie, you’re among friends.” She dusted her hands. “Now, I’m afraid Mrs Sloan has become the seventeenth woman to decide that she can’t cope with our mad hours and won’t work with us “living in sin,” so I’m afraid you’re going to have to surrender to my cooking.”

I made protests, along with Rivers. Caroline is a super cook.

“So you’re really doing it?” I asked, slightly nervously, for as lovely as Caroline is, and as gentle, she’s a little like my Aunt Dahlia. In the sense that if you annoy her, head for the hills, not her voice. “Living in sin, I mean?”

Caroline turned, glancing over one shoulder. “You’re not the only one whom the law affects, Bertie; and I’ve told you before. Where there is Love on both sides, there is no sin.”

She bustled off to the kitchen, leaving me and Rivers alone, with River staring at me slightly uncomfortably.

“They say she’d have to give it up when she marries. The nursing I mean.” He said, moving over to the sofa that stood in the centre of the room. “But if they find out about this...” He shook his head. “They’ll dismiss her anyway.”

“At least there's a legal solution to her situation.” I said, surprising myself with the bitterness in my voice. Was I really that angry about it?

“Not with giving up her boys.” River’s voice was soft. “And she’d hate me forever for that.”

Caroline came through them with the pot, and Rivers went to get plates and knives and things, while Bertram seated himself at the table.

It was a good meal, as it when Caroline is cooking. There was no wine, Rivers always said that he deprived his patients of it and wasn’t going to be a hypocrite, but instead of Orange squash there was some quite nice cordial that Caroline apparently had made with her own fair hands.

By a mutual whatsit, conversation stayed, conversation stayed away from the war and the past in general.

We talked of the weather, of Rivers work, of Caroline’s boys. Had a fascinating discussion about some brainy bird called Havelock Ellis, who Rivers was working with. Caroline had read some of his work and Jeeves own a couple of copies, so I was familiar with the name. His ideas seemed dashed clever and Rivers raved about him while we were chomping though the nose bag.

I’m not sure how we ended up on the subject of Fiancés. Oh it was because Ellis believes in the decimalisation of homosexuals, and Caroline was giving this her whole hearted support, but Rivers was being more cautious.

“In theory, he’s right, but what to do about all the poor devils locked up at the minute huh?” He looked around the table. “I mean, you know what they say about Bedlam.”

Actually I didn’t, but apparently the upshot of it was that if you weren’t off your rocker when you were sent there, then you ended up so. Something to do with the treatment one received apparently.

Caroline said that she understood his point, but she argued that it wasn’t fair on the poor devils at the moment. 

“Think of all the ones we know, William. Living out there, continually terrorised of the knock on the door or the letter, saying that they have been found out? Or the ones who have been found out and are paying…” She trailed off, “Which reminds me, I heard rumours you were paying court to Honoria Glossop--”

She had that look in her eyes that females get when they hear anything about weddings.

I shook my head. “No wedding bells for Bertram, thanks to Jeeves.”

“Jeeves?”

Rivers and I rapidly brought Caroline up to speed, as the Americans say, and she laughed.

She has a rather nice laugh, so I began telling stories of the other scrapes that Jeeves had got me out of since he arrived on my doorsteps, after I had to let Meadowes go for stealing my socks, and Caroline kept laughing.

It was a few minutes before I realised that Rivers was not laughing. In fact, he was frowning at Bertram, as though extremely worried. I glanced at the clock.

“I say, I’d better think about going what?”

Caroline shook her head. “Don’t be silly Bertie. There’s a spare room here. Why tramp half way across London, when you can get a good nights sleep here.” She began to clear the table. “Let William give you a shot, then you can have a nice sleep here and go home tomorrow feeling much better.” 

She had that tone that females who work with loonies have, that makes everything they say seem so dashed reasonable you can’t argue with it, though Rivers sent the little woman a nasty look. Caroline ignored him. “It’s just through there.” She said, pointing to one of the doors off the small room. “There’s some spare pyjamas in there.” Something of what I was thinking must have showed in my face, as Caroline moved around the table and gently hugged me. “You’re hardly the first lost soul to turn up on my doorstep, Bertie. Curly always did have that effect on people.” Her face tightened and she rapidly broke the hug, gathering up the dishes without even an excuse me. William glanced at her, then at me.

“Don’t feel you have to, Bertie.” He said, softly. “But Caroline is right.”

He rose and followed her in to the kitchen. I sat still for a few moments, catching snippets of conversation as the door swung open and closed.

“Sure this Jeeves fellow is nothing to worry.”

“You mean aside from the risk of getting Bertie incarcerated? Anyway there’s nothing going on there, at least not at the moment.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“I know Bertie, I know when there’s something.” A sniff. “It’s just...I’m so angry--”

“Oh Caroline.” 

Even I could tell that was my cue. I went though to the second bedroom of the flat and undressed and a few moments later Rivers came in with his black bag.

“I’m doing this against my better judgement, Bertie.” He said, withdrawing a hypothermic and a small vial, “And with the proviso that you make an appointment to see me soon. And that means some time in the next three weeks, not three years. Do I make myself clear?”

“Perfectly, old bean.” I said, grinning, my eyes fixed on the shiny instrument in his hands.

I know plenty of chaps who’ve been though what I’ve being though, who hate needles, turn quite pale when ever they see one and so on. 

I suppose I’m quite lucky in that I never really minded. When things were bad and the nightmares had me in their grip, I knew that little prick would bring a sleep free from dreams.

Apparently, that’s quite unusual as most people have very vivid dreams while under morphine, but if I do, I don’t remember them,

So I cheerfully bade Rivers goodnight as he withdrew the old n. and settled down to enjoy 8 hours uninterrupted.

*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/

_“My god Bertie, where the hell are you?”_

_I blinked, trying to stop the ringing in my head, looking around at what must surely be hell. Flashes lit up the sky, the noise was deafening, I was soaked to the skin, but there was a voice calling my name._

_“BERTIE!”_

_I must have managed to make some form of sound, as next thing I knew Curly, Captain Hornsby I should say, was standing beside me._

_“Come on, Lieutenant; let’s get some where a bit safer huh?”_

_Well, that sounded like a cracking suggestion, so I ran after him, dropping down into an old trench. Whether it was ours or Jerries I couldn’t say, but it did seem to be safe from that infernal shelling._

_“Hells Bells, Bertie. What the devil are they thinking…?” He trailed off in his rant, staring at me. “My god Bertie, You’re bleeding.”_

_I lifted up my left hand and saw that he was correct. “Just a starch old thing, nothing to worry about.”_

_But Curly was still staring at me like I was on my death bed and Bertram was about to start playing the harp._

_I couldn’t deny it was slightly bigger than a starch and Curly echoed my opinions._

_“Tis not as deep as a well, nor as wide as a church door. But tis enough, twill do.” He muttered his face pale. Lieutenant Edgeware touched him on the shoulder and he shook him off._

_“Alright, Lieutenant. I know.” He turned to face me, his face blotchy. “Bertie, I need you to stay here with the wounded, until I come back. You understand that? It’s a direct order.” His voice nearly broke on the word order. “Just stay here until I relieve you.” He suddenly surprised me, pulling me towards him and kissing Bertram’s forehead. Not that we hadn’t kissed in places other than the forehead before, but never in public._

_“Never forget that I love you Bertie.” He said, tears running down his cheek. “I love you.”  
We pulled apart, the men standing around staring as though they had no idea what was going on. Lieutenant Edgware was a bit quicker on the up take and started ordering the men to line up along the edges of the ditch._

_Hornsby joined them. “I love you.” He repeated, putting his whistle to his lips. And the signal that sounded like a bell for the doomed youth rang out  
_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nurses, during this period and up after the Second World War were forbidden to marry, if they wished to countinue in thier profession. At the same time, they could be dismissed for "immoral conduct" (getting pregnant outside of marriage, living with a man outside of marriage ect). This was true for women in just about every profession, so let's just be grateful it's in the past.
> 
> The Quote Curly uses is from Shakespeare. Again I wish I was talented enough to own it.


	3. The Vertan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For an idea of What Caroline looks like, think of Sybil in Dowton Abbey
> 
> Horrendous as it looks, it would remain the norm for Nurses uniforms in Britain until the 1960s, with strict instructions that cap and cuffs should stay clean.
> 
> This chapter also contains my explaination of why we never see or hear of Bertie playing Cricket or Tennis in the stories, even though we know he can.
> 
>  _We came upon him sitting in the sun  
>  Blinded by war, and left. And past the fence  
> There came young soldiers from the Hand and Flower,  
> Asking advice of his experience.  
> And he said this, and that, and told them tales,  
> And all the nightmares of each empty head  
> Blew into air; then, hearing us beside,  
> "Poor chaps, how'd they know what it's like?" he said.  
> And we stood there, and watched him as he sat,  
> Turning his sockets where they went away,  
> Until it came to one of us to ask "And you're-how old?"  
> "Nineteen, the third of May."_  
> The Veteran by Margaret Postgate Cole

I woke up and couldn’t for the life of me think where I was. All I was certain of was it wasn’t home.

Getting to my feet, and pulling on a dressing grown (a brown camel coloured affair, not mine) on, I stepped outside, nearly colliding with nurse.

It took a moment or t. for me to realise that it was Caroline and I wasn’t back there. I don’t mind admitting it gave me a fair start.

“Good morning Bertie.” She said, fiddling with hairpins behind that great headdress of hers. “I was just about to leave you a note. William was called out to a patient, urgently, and I’m on the early shift. Seemed a good idea just to let you sleep.” She frowned. “My god, Bertie you look dreadful.”

I managed a laugh, “Just missing the grease paint old thing. Slept like a log honestly.”

If anything Caroline looked more worried. 

“Just give me a minute to get dressed and I’ll be out of your hair. Are there any cabs about?”

Caroline was still frowning. “Why don’t you walk with me? St. Jude's is on the way to your flat and it’ll be easier to pick up a cab there.”

But I had no desire to spend any longer in remembrances of the past. “I’ll get one from here, please.”

Caroline’s eyes were still worried, but she nodded. “All right, Bertie, I’ll call you one.” I thanked her and prepared to step back in. “Bertie,” she called after me, and I turned. Her face was more worried than ever, and as I turned she was chewing on her lip, almost identical to the way Curly did when he was called upon and hadn’t done the reading. “You do know we’re friends, right?” she asked, sounding slightly scared. “And nothing can change that?”

I wondered if she thought that my reaction was to her and was worried about it.

“Of course, old thing.” I said, forcing myself to smile as I stepped back into the room.

*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/***/*//*/*/*/

I passed the rest of the day in a state of restlessness, unable to settle at anything.

I read a though pages of the latest Poirot, before dismissing it for a Rex West, before getting up and banging out a few bars on the piano, chain smoking the whole time.

Jeeves drifted in and out of the room, evidently completely baffled by the young master’s behaviour. At two o’clock, I took pity on him and headed off to the Drones.

Not that it helped matters. The infernal racket, normally ignorable, seemed to scratch against my nerves like a tomcat, and I couldn’t help looking at everyone differently.

I saw Barmy Fotheringay-Phipps, the brightest mind of our year, easily expected to take his double first in languages from Oxford, and then settle down to an equally brilliant career in the foreign office, having a joke explained to him by Catsmeat.

I saw Oofy Prosser sitting in the armchair and my blood fair boiled at the sight of him, sitting there like a plump turkey. Alive and wealthy when far better men than him, heroes as opposed to war profiteers, were starving on streets.

*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*  
 _  
“Goodbye sir.” Blood bubbled over Private Vicker’s lips and I wiped it away again. Poor chap wasn’t that far from the end and we both knew it. “God bless the king. Tell my Annie--” He coughed and more blood bubbled up to be wiped away. “Tell my Annie my last thoughts were of her.”_

_I nodded, softly and his head fell back as his breathing slowed. A peaceful death, at least. No need to lie to the family, to that poor girl. I lowered his body down on to the ground, wishing for a handkerchief or something to cover him with, and walked slowly back towards the edge of the trench._

_My hand had stopped hurting, the pain sinking away to a dull numbness that was gradually spreading up my arm. In the distance, I could hear the shriek of shells, the explosions of mines, hear the cries of the men, but it all felt very far away._

_Hornsby lay less than a hundred yards away from the hole in which I now stood. He had been calling for me, for his mother (dead when he was a baby), for Caroline, but had slowly slipped to just calling my name and now was just making whimpering noises that couldn’t be described as human._

_It was strange how calm I felt._

_I was alone here, surrounded by the dead bodies of my men. The man I loved was lying on the wire out there, dying and I couldn’t get to him, because you would need two hands to get out of his hole. My hand had been slashed by shrapnel, so even if I escaped this, I would almost certainly either die or loose the hand to blood poisoning._

_I knew all this, and...accepted it completely calmly, some part of me insisting that it wasn’t real. That this couldn’t be happening.  
_  
*/*/*/*/*/**/*/

“Alright, Bertie?” I jumped out of a brown study as Claude laid a hand on my shoulder. “You look...” He trailed off, trying to come up with a way to describe how I looked, without actually mentioning what had happened.

“Fine. Absolutely spiffing in fact.” Claude was wearing his old Eton tie, almost undone though it wasn’t warm outside. Suddenly, I couldn’t bear it. “Must dash old thing. Got to see a man about a bear.”

I sprinted from the club and stood for a couple of minutes on the street, breathing deeply, trying to regain my balance.

Curly always wanted to be a teacher. All the family money was owned by his grandmother and he was quite honest that he didn’t fancy being dependent on her for the rest of his life. He planned to get his degree and then go teach Classics somewhere.

He would have been good at it too, one of those masters who inspires you because of their own passion for the subject. He was the only reason Claude and Eustace ever even got into Oxford, coming down the summer before their exams and some how or other managing to stuff enough knowledge into both their heads that they passed.

That was the summer before the war, a time I tried to avoid thinking about with even more vigour than the conflict its self. It’s strange how that works. That’s its more painful to remember the good times than the bloody awful, what?

The quickest way back to the flat was through the park, but in this mood, I didn’t dare go there. 

They used to take us out to park nearby, from the hospital, when the weather was fine. I think some chappie even painted it, men in their “hospital blues” sitting or lying on the grass. Except me.

Every time they tried it, I started to scream, as soon as we were in the grassy area. If we went down by the boating pond, I screamed. The cricket pitch, the bowling green, all had the same effect.

As I was cato-something at the time, the situation caused more than a few raised eyebrows and suggestions that I should be forced down there, to see if I could be forced back to the land of the living. 

In the end, it was argued that it was too distressing for the other patients and the passersby and it was stopped, though I don’t remember that.

I don’t remember much after Hornsby died.

I’m told that I was relieved by a Major Reinke, who found me surrounded by the dead bodies of my men, and a live sergeant from another battalion, a Sergeant...Reeves or Geeves, the major’s handwriting wasn’t too clear in the diary, and he was dead by the time anyone thought it might be important to find out what happened. Mustard gas. 

Rivers did do his best to find the sergeant, but with an uncertain surname and no regiment listed, it was hopeless.

At any rate, a couple of major Reinke’s men who had survived said that I was shell-shocked, but coherent, able to answer questions when they were asked and so on. Just apparently unaware or unaccepting of the situation.

I was also coherent in the ambulance on the way back from the front, and I do actually remember some of that. One of the ambulance chappies had been a painter before the war, and I’d actually seen some of his stuff in London. We talked about art and painting, while his partner swore and cursed the potholes in the roads, the Germans and anything else that came to mind. 

Apparently, it was when I was handed at the ambulance depot over to another set of ambulance chappies, that things started to go wrong. I wasn’t in any pain at the time, which seemed to cause a lot of worry in spite of my protests. In fact, the one of the chappies who’d brought me down at the front, the one driving, wanted to keep going, arguing that getting me to le hospital was an urgent whatsit, but his partner managed to convince him that I was still conscious and might just be doing the stiff upper lip. Beyond that, they didn’t have enough fuel for the round trip.

So I was bundled off one ambulance and on to another one, with three other chappies. That was when the problem started. I was still answering questions I was asked all right, but I kept slipping, muttering pieces of poetry. I think I remember some of that, as there was a lot of swearing and talk of blood poisoning.

Somehow or other I was lucky. Or unlucky, it all depends on how you look at it really. By some miracle, the wound was free of infection, though it was worse than was originally thought.

The surgeon chap who worked on me was a marvel. He saved the hand, so that even though some things, like gripping a tennis racket or a cricket bat, are still beyond me, the extension isn’t completely useless.

The problem was however, that Bertram was. Nothing seemed to provoke a reaction from me, from the surgeon prodding at my wound, to the nurses twittering over my head. Nothing produced a reaction, until some kind dear thought I might enjoy the sunshine.

Aunt Dahlia when she was informed of this gave a yell that I believe could be heard in 12 counties and arrived in London to collect me. I was promptly whisked to Brinkley court, where things did not improve.

After two weeks, Aunt Dahlia was forced to admit that fresh air and English cooking wasn’t going to solve the problem with Bertram in this case. I don’t know all the details, but Seppings still looks pained whenever I visit, and always leaves a small Woolworths oil lamp burning in the Wooster room in one of Uncle Tom’s silver cases.

So I was sent to Cranborn. I don’t know how much you know about it, so I’ll just say it was a jolly sort of place, where chaps whose nerves had been destroyed by the shells could go and some chaps like Rivers would try and put them back together. Most were viewed as hopeless cases, nearly all cationic; if that’s the word I want.

I met Caroline almost on the minute I arrived. The sister was carrying on at her about something she’d done or hadn’t done, as the case maybe, and I was being wheeled through the corridors.

“Bertie?” She ran away from Sister, kneeling down beside the wheelchair. “Bertie? What happened?”

She hadn’t got the letter yet. It had been sent, but to her grandmother, who hadn’t considered it worth contacting her only granddaughter to tell her her twin was dead.

She shouldn’t have heard it from me, but I looked into those blue eyes so like Curly's, and said, very softly, “He’s dead.”

She just sat there for a moment, before pulling up against her. “Oh, Bertie!” she muttered.

I reached the flat and flung myself on to the sofa, hugging myself and trying to fight off the memory of those dark days. I knew who I was, I knew who Caroline was, and I knew Hornsby was dead. The rest I had no idea of. Didn’t even know there was a war on, if you catch my drift.

Then Rivers was put in charge of my case. He noted that I had been unresponsive and cato-whatsit until I saw Caroline. Then I had spoken and remembered her and Curly. He suggested that Caroline try talking to me; see what other memories she could prompt.

How he talked Caroline into co-operating, I don’t know, but it was cruel.

When I look back, and remember all those days talking about chappies I remember from school or from Oxford, and Caroline just nodding gently and occasionally offering her own stories, her eyes shining, and all the while most of them were dead.

Then the nightmares started. At first, they were unreachable horrors that I could describe, but that left me screaming and babbling wide-eyed with terror. Then they started to crystallise into the trenches.

Rivers was debriefing Caroline after every session, trying to gauge, I think that’s the word, my progress, but I wasn’t aware of that. All I was aware of was I couldn’t tell her about that. So that night, I—

“Sir?” A hand touched my shoulder and I jumped about a foot in the air. Jeeves was standing there, bearing down at me. “Are you all right sir?”

It was dark. I hadn’t even realised it. How long had I been sitting there? I couldn’t say. Jeeves was staring at me, a worried look in his eyes. 

“I’m fine Jeeves.” I forced the smile. “Just got a bit lost in thought. Unfamiliar territory what?” Even to my ears, my voice was far too high pitched, the laugh too force and hysterical. I coughed and tried again “Suppose I’d better be toddling off to bed what?”

 

“Very good sir.” Jeeves sounded uncertain. “Would you like me to bring you a tray?”

“Tray?”

“Yes sir.” Jeeves’s eyebrows had risen. “It is nearly nine o’clock sir, and you have not eaten.”

The mere thought of food made my stomach turn. “No thank you, Jeeves. I’m not hungry.”


	4. Those Dreams from the pit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part of the first scene comes from K. K. Reinke from an unpublished fic, and is used with her permission.
> 
> _Does they matter? Those dreams from the pit?  
>  You can drink and forget and be glad,  
> And people won't say that you're mad,  
> For they know that you fought for your country  
> And no one will worry a bit _
> 
> Does it Matter? Siegfried Sassoon

Chapter 4  
 _“Situation, Lieutenant?” How the bally hell was it that top brass always managed to look so clean? Even after just having slid down the collapsing sides of a trench, the Major standing before me, with an impressive handle bar moustache, looked like he’d just come in from a rousing game of cricket, rather than a battle._

_“The man’s twitching and standing in mud up to his kickers. What do you think the situation is?” came a mutter from the rear before I could reply. I ignored it. Didn’t want to get the chappy in trouble, what? He had more than enough of them._

_“All steady here, Major.” I raised my right hand in a salute. “Not to say but we could use a spot of relief. That is, if it wouldn’ be too much trouble.”_

_The Major’s eyes narrowed as he looked behind me, his eyes coming to rest on the figure standing there._

_“Sergeant?”_

_“Jeeves, sir. I got separated from my unit in the barrage.” Very proper voice, with just a hint of an accent. I’d heard it so many times, why couldn’t I place it? But dash it all, how could I? I’d only met the chappy a few moments ago._

_“That would be the Royal Fusiliers. Gather they took a royal pounding.”_

_“Felt as much.” The Sergeant muttered, before continuing. “I fell in with Lieutenant Wooster during a lull. He was… as you see. Captain Hornsby left the Lieutenant here to watch the— “A look behind him that could only be described as significant, “— wounded, and made a dash for the rear. He and whatever soldiers you don’t find otherwise.”_

_The Major nodded, his face softening, and his eyes resting on Bertie like he was a favourite, though simple, nephew._

_“We’ll get you out.”_

_I paused. One didn’t like to correct a superior and all that, especially in front of the men, but Hornsby hadn’t come back yet._

_“I don’t know, sir. I’m under orders to wait for Captain Hornsby here.”_

_“Orders from a Major override that. If the captain has any complaint he can take it up with me - at such time as we are in the same place.” The Major looked distinctly pained. He glanced behind him. “Defty, Heaslet. Escort Luitentant Wooster to the dressing station._

_“Right ho, Major.” A hand gently touched my own. “Come along sir, there’s nothing for you here.”_

_“But I say” I had to protest. Ranks and proper procedure and all that, but human decency had to come first. “The men—"_

_The hand patted my arm again, and the soft Northumberland accent gently washed over me. “Now don’t you worry your head about that, sir. Major Reinke has arranged a stretcher party to deal with the...” That significant pause again. “Wounded.”_

_“I say. Dashed decent of him, what?” I turned back and called over my shoulder. “Thank you sir.”_

_Major Reinke looked, if possible. more pained, but he smiled, before returning to his conversation with the sergeant._

_“Sergeant Jeeves. I gather you don’t think we’ll find the Captain?”_

_“I have a spare shovel. If the Major would care to look.”_

_“Sergeant, you are the most formally proper trooper that ever gave me lip.”_

_“I do try to give satisfaction sir.”  
_  
*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/

I awoke with a yelp that would have done my Aunt Dahlia proud, diving from the bed to avoid some long gone German shell and nearly braining myself on the dresser as a result.

I lay for a moment completely still, trembling like a frightened rabbit.

“Sir.” I tried to stand, but my legs wouldn’t support me. Fighting feelings of nausea, I made another dive, this time towards the bathroom. “Sir?”

I managed to pull the lock on the bally thing, just as I head the bedroom door opening. “Sir, are you all right?”

I rested my head against the bathtub, trying desperately to get my breathing under control.

“Sir?” The handle rattled. “Sir, the door is locked.”

“I know Jeeves.” I somehow or other managed to gasp out. 

“Sir?” Jeeves sounded extremely concerned. “Sir, let me in.”

I shook my head, even though I knew he couldn’t see it. “No Jeeves.” I couldn’t let him see me like this. “Call Rivers." There was a pause before I heard the footsteps retreating from the door. I fell back against the tub, still gasping.

_The bathrooms at Cranborn didn’t have locks on the door, but I knew from boarding school all the ways to jimmy things if you wanted a little privacy. You could have a bath every week, if you wanted it, and you only had to be watched if they thought you were a high suicide risk, which Bertram was not._

_I waited until it was Caroline’s day off, having mentioned I’d like a bath if it was possible the previous e. Matron checked and agreed quite willingly, thinking that it was a positive sign, that Bertram was taking some interest in the world._

_Smithers, one of the RAMC chaps, ran the bath, then left Bertram alone to disrobe._

_We all had our razors still, even among the lunatics. Standards for the British Army must be maintained, but these were supposed to stay in our rooms by the basin. Not that anyone really bothered to check and even if they did, it was simple enough to slip the bally thing into my pocket. Once Smithers had gone, I stuck the door and drew it out..._

“Sir.” Jeeves’s voice jolted me and I spun around, trying to see the danger. “Dr Rivers has been called out to a patient, Sir. His office was unsure when he would return.” The chattering was worse than ever. I’d been here before; I knew what I needed, even though it would kill her.

“Then get Caroline!”

“Sir?”

“Nurse Caroline Hornsby, St Jude's. Wimbledon 551 fffor...” I couldn’t finish the last word, collapsing again, tears running down my cheeks.

Jeeves would think I was a complete imbecile and probably want to leave. Or worse, he’d think that I really was insane and I’d been carted back to Caborn or its ilk. I pulled my knees up to my chin and tried to get some form of control over myself.


	5. Repression of War Experience

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _  
> You’re quiet and peaceful, summering safe at home;_
> 
>  
> 
> _You’d never think there was a bloody war on!..._
> 
>  
> 
> _O yes, you would ... why, you can hear the guns._
> 
>  
> 
> _Hark! Thud, thud, thud,—quite soft ... they never cease—_
> 
>  
> 
> _Those whispering guns—O Christ, I want to go out_
> 
>  
> 
> _And screech at them to stop—I’m going crazy;_
> 
>  
> 
> _I’m going stark, staring mad because of the guns._  
>  Repression of War Experience by Siegfried Sassoon

“Bertie?” How long I’d been on the bathroom floor, I couldn’t say, but I could hear Caroline pounding on the door. “Bertie, if you don’t answer the door this minute, then Jeeves will fetch the porter and we’ll break it down.” Bang. Bang. “Bertie I mean it. Unlock this door.” It was VAD Nurse who spoke. When she referred to Jeeves, she might as well have said Smithers or Burns or anyone of the numerous RAMC orderlies who flitted around the place. A part of me wanted to bally well let them, but I knew what I had to do.

“Just you.” I gasped out. “No Jeeves.”

There was a pause before she spoke again. “All right, Bertie.” She turned. “I think we might need some tea, Jeeves. Would you please go and see to it? And get a drop of brandy down you, you look frightful.”

“I fear I could not, Miss.”

“Stuff and nonsense, that’s medical advise.” She dropped her voice. “Just give me an hour with him. And keep trying to reach Dr. Rivers.”

There was a pause and then I heard Jeeves make some response and tootle off. Caroline knocked on the door again. “Bertie, it’s just me now. Let me in.”

I pulled the bolt back and retreated back against the tub as Caroline stepped in. She had removed the bally headdress, for which I was grateful, but was still in the light blue dress and the apron that crackled when ever she moved.

“What a morning,” she said, sitting down besides me, her skirts spreading out across the tiles. “First William gets call at four am, and has to rush out, then it’s raining out, so I can’t get a cab, so I turn up at St. Jude's with cuffs and collar stained, which earned me a lecture from Matron I thought I left behind with my training. Then to cap it all off, your valet bursts in when I’m in the middle of a session and basically demands I accompany him back here.”

She sounded like Curly, that same sort of irrelevant chatter they kept up when they knew there was something wrong, just waiting for you to tell them. 

She had done the same thing the morning after I tried to end it all. Fussed and potted around the room, never properly meeting Bertram’s eyes, talking about something unimportant before turning to look at me.

_“I’m still incredibly angry with you, Bertie; it frightens me, in fact, how much,” she said, her hands shaking. “I just want your word that you’ll never try anything like that ever again. I mean it, Bertie,” She said holding up her hand to stop me speaking. “We’re burying Curly this weekend. Or at least, we’re having a service.” She shook her head, tears spilling from her eyes. “I couldn’t bear it, if I came back to have to do the same for you.”_

I promised, and she seemed to be the only who actually believed Bertram would keep his word. At least she wasn’t looking at my pyjama sleeves for blood. Which was what made the whole thing so bally bad.

 

“Caroline,” I interrupted her. “Caroline. I’m sorry.”

 

“Bertie, don’t worry. He’s a lecherous old coot. Do him quite good to have sister watching him for a while.”

I shook my head. She didn’t understand, she thought this was just what Rivers had warned about, I’d repressed until I couldn’t repress anymore and the whole thing had jumped out at me. But it was and it wasn’t.

“I remember.”


	6. Strange Hells

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The dialogue and setting in this chapter were created by krisreinke and are used with her permission. I hope she likes them. I have changed the chapter title, as I hadn't realised I'd already used it before.
> 
>  _There are strange hells within the minds war made  
>  Not so often, not so humilatingly afraid  
> As one would expect-the racket and fear guns made. _  
> Strange Hells by Ivor Gurney

_A trench in France, 1916_  
“Hullo in there.” 

There was a sort of lull in the shelling. It happened from time to time along the line, to let our chappies and the Red Cross search for the wounded. And the dead, of course. From the midst of this silence, came the voice. 

“Reinforcements?”

“No, sir. Just me. Are you alone?”

A young man slid down into the trench. His uniform was torn and covered in mud, but I could see the sergeant stripes. His regimental badges were hidden, though, and I suppose I should have been worried that I was being trapped with a deserter. I wasn’t, though.

The shelling had started again. Obviously just the chaps on both sides needed pause to reload. I nodded. 

“Plus the men, of course. They’re in the rear. A bit more restful back there.”

“Yes, sir.”

He cast one eye behind me. I can only imagine what he saw. Men lined up, many with their wounds of death still on them. Some standing, propped up against the trench, others lying on the floor. 

“Not the whole detachment, mind you. Captain Hornsby took out the fit men. Planned to meet up with B Company.”

“Captain Hornsby? That would be a sandy haired gentleman?”

His voice sounded uneasy as though he were realising something. 

“You’ve seen him?” I hope I didn’t sound too eager, but I couldn’t accept that what I’d heard was the end. That Curly was really gone. 

“Something of him, sir.” The upper half, at any rate, draped over the rollings of barbed wire some hundred yards to the rear. Or at least that’s where Rienkes' diary said he found him. They never found the bottom half. I told Rivers that once. Thought it was a terrific joke. 

“I’ve orders to hold until relieved. You…” I glanced down at the cracked face of the watch, even though I knew it would have stopped. If the mud and water hadn’t damaged the gear, then it at least needed winding up again. “You wouldn’t know when that might be, would you?”

“I could not say, sir.” His tone was very proper, classless. It made me think of Seppings, and other butlers I’d spoken to over the years, that sort of proper accent, if you know what I mean.

I rubbed my hands together, trying to get rid of the cold. “Rum thing, what? Not that one wants to be thought a whinge, and the men are jolly good about it. Not a word of complaint. But it has been a bit trying.”

“Yes sir. You’ve not heard from HQ?”

I shook my head. 

“Maybe when the rain stops. Mud makes the going hard.”

“As you say sir.” Absurd the conversations you have in those sitches. Here we were, two chappies in the middle of no man's land, trapped by the shelling and surrounded by the dead, but we might as well have been waiting for the 53 omnibus in Piccadilly. 

“I don’t much mind for myself,” I continued, still rubbing my hands together, "but Private Vickers has a loathing of mud. Says it breeds maggots.” 

Vickers had been convinced on this point, cursing the rain and the mud with language to make a French prostitute blush. He had expanded on his theories with maggots so many times that I was fairly certain I could recite the whole thing off by heart, and no amount of reassurance from the RAMC chaps who come down to inspect conditions could convince him otherwise.

“No sir. I believe spontaneous generation has been disproved.” The voice was strange. A faint trace of an accent, Northumberland, I think, but like it was acquired, not the way the chap usually spoke. His speech patterns made me think of Seppings, and Brinkley Court and home. It was very reassuring. 

“I say. That should cheer the lad up. Give him the nod, will you?”

The young face (though the chap had to be at least my age, if not older) twisted slightly, glancing behind me again. 

“Which one is…?”

“Third from the left. He’s having a bit of a lie-down.” I glanced back, taking in Vickers' chalk white face, and the ruddy brown patch on the khaki, where the shrapnel entered. “I do hope the shelling doesn’t wake him.”

“Unlikely, sir.” It sounded almost exactly like Seppings, when I asked him at age 5 whether the kitchen cat would miss her kittens. It was only later I found out they’d been drowned. I shook my head, softly. 

“Poor lad. He needs his rest.”

“As do you, sir, if you don’t mind my saying,” His eyes rested on me with extreme concern, almost fatherly. I shrugged. 

“I'll confess to being a touch tired, but I’ve orders to watch for the Captain’s return. Nothing to be done for it.”

“But I could give you a hand with the sentry duty. Let you take some relief.” His voice sounded completely reasonable, like we were discussing trousers rather than watches. I yawned.

“Thanks awfully. Say, there’s a canteen with a bit of water in the back. I’m sure Sergeant White wouldn’t begrudge you a share.”

The sergeant glance to where Sergeant White stood, or leant more accurately, a single spot of red contrasting with the mud brown of his uniform.

“Thank you, sir.”

I sat down, gratefully, as I was starting to feel rather dizzy, and stared out over the landscape.

“Fusiliers, they’re a Northumberland regiment, aren’t they?” I wanted to claim that I was talking about this because I wanted to sound out if he really was a deserter or something similar, but in truth it was more that I needed to keep talking. If I didn’t, I was going to go.

“Yes, sir.”

“You don’t sound like you’re from there originally though.”

“My father was in service at Sir Brittan’s.”

“That’s near Cambridge isn’t it?” I flexed the hands slightly.

“Yes sir.”

 

”I joined up at Oxford.” I gazed out, trying to see spirals and towers, not mud and death. “Was reading History. Don’t know why. We never seem to learn from it.”

“I believe it was Santayana who wrote ‘Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it.’" I couldn’t tell if he had realised the sitch, or something like it, or if we had both unconsciously just fallen into the type of conversations you had on watch. Never about the war, or at least not directly, but about what things had been like before, who you were before, rather than the thing you were now. 

“That’s philosophy,” I muttered. I knew that because Bingo was reading it. He liked coming out with bits like that. Thought it would impress the girls, make them think he was deep. 

“Something to study when one gets back.”

I shook my head. “I think I’m done with swotting. Thinking just gets the world into trouble.” Slowly, I glanced at him. He knew who Santayana was, had pronounced the name correctly. Perhaps he was a poor scholar or something similar. “What of you?”

“I think I might start.” There was pause before he added. “Before the draft I was considering trade school. Maybe study up to be a mechanic. I’ve been saving my pay, and my father could spot me a few quid. But now?” He glanced around and shrugged. “Any post with no mud.”

“Oh - and no boots.” I added, remembering White’s tirade against British Army boots and the ridiculous insistence that they should be kept clean.

“I’d not mind boots, sir.” He hadn’t sunk down beside me, but he had relaxed slightly. "Low civilian boots of soft, gleaning leather. Those would feel like heaven now." He smiled, with the same dreamy look in his eyes Vickers got when thinking of his Annie’s shepherd's pie. “My father taught me how to polish leather when I was a tyke.”

I nodded. “I wish my father had taught me to polish.” I said, wistfully.

Sergeant Jeeves snorted. “You’re a toff. You don’t need to black boots.”

“Never said I would. Still, I wish my father had taught me. Boot polishing or … or anything. He died when I was in short pants, you see. My mother with him. Only wee Bertie left behind. Rather puts a cramp in the family times.” I sighed. “Oh well, look on the bright side. I’ve the fewer back home for me to worry about worrying.”

“You have a talent for finding the positive in matters, sir, if you don’t mind my saying so.”

I smiled. “Got to be good at something, what?”

*******************************

“Sir. Lieutenant Wooster, sir.”

It was dark. How long I’d been unconscious, I couldn’t say, but someone was shaking me. I looked up to see the dark hair and eyes of the young man who had crashed into the trench earlier.

“Give me your scarf, sir.”

I scrambled as best I could to my feet.

“I say. You’re not thinking of surrender, because--”

“No sir.” His face was shining. “I’ll make a red flag.” He handed me the binoculars. Must have taken them from White while I was asleep. “Movement behind that ridge.”

This was good news. I glanced around. “I’d rally the men but…”

“No need, sir. Those helmets look like our side. I need to signal them now so they don’t decide we’re the Hun.” Jeeves sounded like he was singing, almost. 

“Best say toodle pip then,” I agreed.  
 __


	7. The Ways of God are Strange

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _‘For George lost both his legs; and Bill’s stone blind;  
>  ‘Poor Jim’s shot through the lungs and like to die;  
> ‘And Bert’s gone syphilitic: you’ll not find  
> ‘A chap who’s served that hasn’t found some change.’  
> And the Bishop said: ‘The ways of God are strange!’_
> 
> They by Siegfried Sassoon

“Rienkes jumped in to the trench about five minutes afterwards.” I sighed and leant back against the bath. There it was, all out in the open.

I wasn’t a hero, wasn’t worth of the captaincy they’d given me afterwards. If I’d been there on my own, I wouldn’t have survived. First Curly had saved me by leaving me behind, then Sergeant Jeeves had kept me alive until help had arrived.

I wasn’t brave. I was just lucky.

I risked a glance at Caroline, not sure what I was going to see in her face, but it wasn’t what I saw there. Confusion.

“Bertie, what are you sorry for?”

I blinked, had she not heard a word I’d said.

I was about to begin again, but Caroline interrupted me.

“Curly knew the likely hood was he wasn’t going to survive that charge. I think he’d just be dashed pleased that you were alright. He knew the risks Bertie, after 3 years in France, you all did.” She paused. “As for this other Chap, you may have been as instrumental to his survival, as he was to yours. Got to have someone to fight for, else it’s pointless.” Her voice shook on the last word, and I looked her square in the face.

Tears were slowly starting to steam down them.

”I say.” I had to protest. “What’s the matter?”

Caroline was sobbing now. An odd word or two made it though. “Relieved. Thought. Ran away.”

I blinked. “You thought I survived because I was a coward.”

She turned at me. “Hell teeth, Bertie No! No!” she swallowed. “I thought, maybe, Curly had though.”

I stared at her in total incomprehension. “How could you…?”

“You couldn’t remember.” Caroline swallowed. “And then when you did, you tried to…” She shook her hands in the direction of my wrists. “And get yourself locked up by admitting homosexuality to Charleston.”

Dr. Charleston, head of the Casborn had absolutely no doubt that sodomists were mad. His normal reaction to such practises was to send the deviant to his clinic at Turro on the Cornish coast, where he had quite a high success rate in “Cures.” If the men he cured were never the same afterwards, well all the better really, what?

I’d told him what Curly and I were to each other, about three days after the incident in the bathroom, when an investigation was going on into how it could have happened. Thoroughly expected to get my marching orders the next day, only Rivers had a word with him and convinced him that I was off my onion, but not a homosexual.

Caroline was still talking. “I thought you were trying to protect me. From what my brother had done.”

I gazed at her, feeling like an absolute cad. “I wanted to protect you from the horrors.”

Caroline smiled though her tears. “Bit late for that.” She shook her head. “No matter how bad it was, Bertie, it was infinitely preferable to what I was thinking; even when I thought my brother had run away.”

There didn’t seem to be anything much to say to that, so I stay ed silent, leaning back against bath, as Caroline hunted through her pockets for a handkerchief. A small cough made us both look up.

While Caroline had shut the bathroom door after her, she hadn’t locked it. Rivers stood in the doorway.

“What a day.” He said, putting down his black bag. “Remind me why I agreed to go into private practise.”

”Because you couldn’t agree with old Charleston on the treatment of Inverts.” Caroline muttered, getting to her feet.

“Yes, but it was better than spending the better part of the day caught in the middle between Captains Blackadder and Flash.” He shook his head. “Army and Air Corps should stay separate. For everyone’s sanity.” He glanced at me, then at Caroline. “Is everything alright? Berties’s man said it was urgent, but I was sure you have everything under control…” He frowned. Peering closer. “Caroline, you’re crying.”

“Been crying.” She corrected him. “And it’s alright.” She rubbed at her face. “I’ll go and see how Jeeves in getting on with that tea.”

“Tea? Caroline, what on earth…?”

He turned to me. “Can you explain what’s going on here, Bertie?”

I took a deep breath and told him, skimming over Caroline’s own surpiciuosions. If she chose to share them with him, well that was her b.

Rivers still looked confused when I finished, but he was hiding it better. I suddenly let off a terrific yawn, and Rivers face softened.

“Come on, Captain. Let’s get you to bed.” He said, bodily lifting me and ignoring my protests. “We can talk more in the morning.”

I couldn’t protest, as I was asleep, as soon as my head hit the pillow.


	8. Say not soft things as other men have said

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _When you see millions of the mouthless dead  
>  Across your dreams in pale battalions go,  
>  Say not soft things as other men have said,  
>  That you’ll remember. For you need not so.  
>  Give them not praise. For, deaf, how should they know  
>  It is not curses heaped on each gashed head?  
>  Nor tears. Their blind eyes see not your tears flow.  
>  Nor honour. It is easy to be dead.  
>  Say only this, “They are dead.” Then add thereto,  
>  “yet many a better one has died before.”  
>  Then, scanning all the overcrowded mass, should you  
>  Perceive one face that you loved heretofore,  
>  It is a spook. None wears the face you knew.  
>  Great death has made all this for evermore._
> 
> When You See Millions of the Mouthless Dead – Charles Sorley

“Tea Ms Hornsby?”

“Thank you Jeeves.” I heard the soft clink of a cup and saucer, before Caroline spoke again. “And, thank you for your help yesterday.”

“I fear I did little or nothing, Ms.”

“You didn’t send for men from the county Lunatic asylum. That’s a great deal.” There was a pause, before she added. “He’ll be alright. William, Dr. Rivers, says that sleep is often the best remedy, giving the body a chance to heal.”

“I would never question Dr. Rivers’s judgement.”

“But it doesn’t stop you worrying.” She laughed softly. “I worry too, but I think that’s part of the course with Bertie.” She paused and added. “I’m sorry he didn’t tell you either. It must have been a shock.”

“Not entirely Ms.” There was a pause, before Jeeves spoke. “Brinkley, a very inferior gentleman temporarily in Mr. Wooster’s employ mentioned his opinion that my employer was “barmy” to the Junior Ganymede’s, and early in my employ, Mr Wooster suffered several waking nightmares, as I believe the current medical terminology is.”

“Thought he was back in France.”

“Indeed Ms.”

“Poor Bertie.” She glanced. “Were you in the war?”

A pause, “Sorry, It’s unforgiveable of me to ask, but you look about the right age.”

“I was Ms.” Jeeves’s voice suggested that the subject was closed, but Caroline is not affected by such things as concern us less mortals.

“What Regiment?”  
”The Royal Fulisers, Ms.” A pause. “I believe the pot could do with refreshing, Ms.”

There was the sound of a door closing and a pause, where Caroline whispered. “It can’t be. The coincidence…beggars belief.”

I drifted back to sleep.

***************************************

“You’ve been crying.” Rivers voice soft, the Scottish accent, he always claimed came from Edinburg where he studied more auditable.

“They’re good tears.” A pause, before Caroline added. “First time I’ve been able to cry, properly cry for Curly.”

“You couldn’t have believed…”

“I heard it happen to better men.” She sighed.

“You knew…”

“What did I know, William? Nothing. All they would say, all anyone would say was that it was hell. That’s all I knew about it. That and a few bits some of them let slip, or through poems.” There was a pause as she added. “Did you see the new one Rockefeller Todd published last month? Not as good as his war poetry of course, but no one will print them.”

“Don’t change the subject.”

“I’m not. It’s all connected.” She sighed. “You’ve said yourself, the horrors of the mind are worse than any reality. What reality did we have, other than the results? We read about gas, about shelling, we saw men who’d lost limbs, and we weren’t supposed to understand or care, really. It was…” She froze, suddenly looking at me. “Bertie.”

“What ho old thing?” I tried to affect an air of casual jollity. Very hard when A. one has been caught eavesdropping on a private conservation and B. one is lying in bed in heliotrope pyjamas. Caroline got to her feet.

“I’ll go and see if Jeeves can rustle something up.” She got to her feet and almost ran from the room. I stared after the closing door.

“Don’t blame yourself, Bertie. Caroline doesn’t.” William got his feet and retrieved his bag. “She’s just relieved you’re alright. And grieving.”

”It’s been a long time since Curly died.”

William nodded. “Eight years.” He smiled. “But there’s no time limit on grief.” He paused and added. “You should know that.”

I started to nod, and then I paused, thinking. How long had it been since Curly was the first thing I thought about in the morning? The pain, once a agonising almost bone crushing sensation, was now a dull throb, almost like toothache. How long had it been?

Two years, since Jeeves came to me.

Rivers seemed to read it in my face. “Time heals all wounds, Bertie. It is the way of the world. And eventually, a new love will blossom. It does not eliminate the old love.” I lifted my head to look at him. “I loved a woman. She was very ill.” He turned his head away. “One evening, she took a walk down by the river. She never returned.” He paused, glancing at me. “I still think about her constantly. But it does not affect, or alter what I feel for Caroline. But I’ve been there. I’ve wrestled with my feelings. Eventually I had to accept that I had to tell her. Else go mad.” He swallowed. “But at the same time, I knew I couldn’t ask her, not yet. I had to heal. But I let her know how I felt.” He smiled. “She …she needed to heal to.” He looked at me properly. “You should tell her. She won’t be angry.” 

“How can you be so sure?”

Rivers got to his feet. “Just talk to her.”

He stepped out.


	9. Smile Boys, That's the Style

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Pack up your troubles in your old kit-bag, And smile, smile, smile, While you've a Lucifer to light your fag, Smile, boys, that's the style. What's the use of worrying? It never was worth while, so Pack up your troubles in your old kit-bag, And smile, smile, smile."
> 
> Also reference (and slightly barbised by Bertie) is "It's a long way to Tipperary, It's a long way to go. It's a long way to Tipperary To the sweetest girl I know! Goodbye, Piccadilly, Farewell, Leicester Square! It's a long long way to Tipperary, But my heart's right there."
> 
> Caroline quotes "Remember" by Christina Rossetti
> 
> I don't own any of them.

She must have gone home while I was asleep. Now dressed in a knitted pullover and sort of brown skirt-beige I think it’s called- Caroline sat down beside the bed. Her hands picked rapidly at the hem.

“William said you wanted to talk to me.” She said, her eyes fixed on it. I didn’t. In fact, I wanted nothing more than to avoid this conversation. But I knew Rivers, I knew he wouldn’t rest and the worst thing was I knew he was right.

“About Curly.”

I swallowed. “Caroline, I…”

“It’s alright.” Tears half hung. “Curly . He would have wanted you to be happy.” She paused and quoted. “Better to forget and be happy, than remember and be sad.”  
I shook my head, shocked. “I’d never forget him.”

“I Know.” She paused, “But this…” She looked around the room, as though seeking something beyond her control. “This sort of half morning, half manic depressive, it does no one any good, least of all you. You’re not cut out to be the Widow of Windsor.”

I wasn’t sure whether to be flattered or insulted by the compassion to the late queen.

“Just,” She fiddled with her jumper again. “Don’t shut me out of your life, please. We’re friends, Bertie, aren’t we?”

I looked at her and for a moment, I could see the child who was kept at home, while her brother was sent off to school. Not literally, I mean, metowhatis. 

She looked sad and scared. I took a deep breath and began to sing.

“It’s a long way to St. Paul’s, it’s a long way to go.” Caroline looked at me, slightly uncertainly, as I continued. “It’s a long, long way to St. Paul’s, to the sweetest girl, I know.” Caroline began smiling. “Goodbye Piccadilly, farewell Leicester square. It’s a long, long way to St Paul’s, but my heart lies there.”

Caroline was grinning, as she began with the refrain. “Pack up your troubles in your old kitbag and smile, smile smile. While you’ve a Lucifer to light your fag, smile boys that the style. What’s the use of worrying, it never was worthwhile, So”

We finished together. “Pack up your troubles in your old kitbag and smile, smile, smile,” Just as the door opened and Rivers and Jeeves entered. They both stared at us like we were mad.


	10. A Little Space to Weep

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Go, and may the God of battles_
> 
> _You in His good guidance keep:_
> 
> _And if He in wisdom giveth_
> 
> _Unto His beloved sleep,_
> 
> _I accept it nothing asking, save a little space to weep  
> _  
>  England to her Sons, W. N. Hodgson

“He’s a good looking one.”

I jumped at the sound of a voice once as familiar to me as my own, drifted across the room. 

“I can’t fault your taste, Bertie.”

Curly Hornsby sat on the chest of drawers, dressed in a blue shirt and white trousers. Hatless, in the fashion of young men these days, he seemed completely at ease with the situation.

“What ho, Curly.” I said. I paused to look around the room. “I suppose I’m errr...”

Curly shook his head, sadly. “I told you when you had flu. Your time isn’t yet Bertie. I don’t know when it will be, but not for a long while.” He paused, playing idly with a cigarette case.

“Right,” I nodded. “Not that I’m not dashed pleased to see you and all that, but what are you doing here?”

Curly shrugged. “The rationalists would say I’m a product of your mind, that you wanted to say goodbye to me or that I’m a vivid dream or a hallucination.”

“And what do you say?”

Curly smiled, sadly. “I’d say I never left you, Bertie. I’ve been here the whole time.”

“Not to put too finer point on it, old thing, but I think I’d remember if you had.”

Curly shrugged. “I’ve been here. Seen everything.” He paused and added. “That American girl, Pauline was it?”

As I nodded, he continued. “She saw me, back in 1918 when everyone thought you were going to die. I didn’t tell her anything, she just looked and knew.” He shrugged. “They say some women have a 6th sense about these things.”

While he’d been talking, Curly had...and I know it seems insane, appeared to be glowing. The light was getting brighter. He smiled sadly, as he realised that I had noticed.

“It’s time Bertie.”

“For what?”

“For me to say goodbye.” He reached out, running one hand down my face. “I love you, Bertie.”

“You can’t.”

“It isn’t you or me, who decides such things. It’s nature.” He paused and added. “Jeeves is a good man. He’ll make you happy.”

I shook my head. Curly smiled.

“He will. And one day, I’ll just be a memory.”

“Never.”

He smiled again. “Bertie, that’s all I’ve been for 2 years. A memory, to convince you want you wanted was a bad plan.” He fidgeted with his cuffs, so like Caroline. “Things are going to get worse before they get better. There’s another war coming, with the fascists.”

I shook my head, unable to take the idea of fighting those members of the population who dressed up in black shorts and shouted “Heil Spode” seriously. He nodded. “You’ll need someone to help you, to protect you.” He ran his fingers through my hair. “You’re special Bertie. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.”

I wanted to protest, but he was going, becoming less solid. “Goodbye Bertie. Look after Caroline for me. She’ll need your friendship. Goodbye.”

I opened my mouth and forced the words out. “Tootle pip old thing.”

Curly faded into blackness.


	11. Epilogue (or Life goes on)

_3 years and many adventures later_   
“Rummy telegram this, Jeeves.” I said, picking up the communication off the breakfast tray.

“Indeed?” Jeeves concentrated on buttering the toast, making the butter run into the corners, but not drip over the edges. Six months since he became my lover and I still have no idea how he managed it.

“Getting married at noon today stop need witnesses stop St Thomas Chapel, St. Pauls Stop.”

“Is there a name attached?”

I glanced to the end of the communication. “Yes. I say.” My eyes opened wide. “It’s from Caroline.”

The telephone chose that moment to ring. Jeeves heaved himself off the bed to answer it. “Dr. Rivers, sir.”

“Hello Bertie.” Rivers sounded practically giddy. “I suppose you got Caroline’s message?”

“Well yes, but to put it bluntly old fruit I’m a little confused. I mean the law hasn’t’ changed.”

“No.” Rivers signed. “No, it hasn’t.” he paused, as though he was thinking over the sit. “But Caroline has. Just woke me up this morning and said she wanted to get married.” I could almost hear the other man shrugging. “When a woman like Caroline says that, all you worry about is the vicar. “He shook his head. “ Just lucky we could get a license. Anyway, you are coming aren’t you?”

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world old thing.”

“Good, good.” He paused and added. “Caroline says Jeeves is invited too.” He paused and added. “Hang on, she wants to speak to you. I have to run. Got patients to see.”

“Hello?” I heard Caroline’s voice as I tried to figure things out.

“Congratulations old thing.” I paused. “Err, not to put to finer point on it, but did I hear that Rivers is…?”

“See patients?” Caroline laughed. “Yes, well that’s why we’re getting married at noon. That’s when my break is.”

“And the hospital?”

“Are completely in the dark. “ Caroline sounded so smug that arguing that it couldn’t last didn’t seem kind. Dimly, at her end, I heard a door closing and Caroline spoke in a rush. “Grandmother called me home for an interview yesterday. Seemed she’d heard about the latest mishap with the Basset woman.”

“Oh.”

“Indeed.” Caroline sounded frustrated “She and your Aunt Agatha had apparently decided that you and I should marry. Said I had enough experience with lunatics to handle you.” Caroline sounded a bit peeved. Not that I could blame her. “I told her I wasn’t interested, she pointed out that William and I weren’t married, and I walked out.”

“So you’re marrying William to avoid marrying me?” I wasn’t sure if I should be a bit hurt by this.

“No, to annoy Grandmother. Anyway, that’s not important. I called to ask a favour.”

“Anything old thing.”

“Will you…” She swallowed. “Will you give me away? I mean, I understand if it’s weird, or anything, but…” She paused. “You were Curly’s friend.”

A part of me is sad that is the nearest either of us can ever come to public description of what we were.

“Of course.” I paused. “In fact, old thing, I have a rather spiffing new tie, perfect for the happy occasion.”

There was a pause at the other end of the line before Caroline said, “Just wear what Jeeves tells you to.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's it folks. I am sort of planning a bit that looks at Jeeve's view of the situation, but no promises. Hope everyone has enjoyed it and thank you for sticking with me.


End file.
